


Debts Be Paid

by EmeraldHeiress



Series: Warriors: Fierce and Mild [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Adult Damian Wayne, Alpha Damian Wayne, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Damian Wayne is Blackwing, Don't copy to another site, Execution, Gen, Non-Canonical Character Death, Omega Jason Todd, Protective Damian Wayne, Reverse Robins, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23562469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldHeiress/pseuds/EmeraldHeiress
Summary: The fate of Jason Todd is the same throughout the multiverse.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Series: Warriors: Fierce and Mild [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610320
Comments: 55
Kudos: 439





	1. Eiusdem Fortunae

The crowbar flashes in the light of the warehouse as it comes flying down. Manic laughter pierces the air and rings hollow in Jason’s ears. It shatters a rib — sending spikes of agony through his side. 

He doesn’t have enough air to scream again.

“Little Grackle all alone!” Joker singsongs. “With no Daddy Blackwing.”

A white grin, sharp and empty, stretches blood-red lips but Jason can barely see it. Everything’s blurry and out of focus. He can’t move. Can’t _breathe_. He barely remembers his own name. 

It must be the head wounds.

Or the broken ribs.

The crowbar descends again. Lower this time. Ripping flesh from his hip as it comes away. The air is already thick with blood, the new addition makes no difference. A whimper drags itself past his throat — already raw from screaming. This new beating is just the latest in a line of tortures. 

How long has it been? 

Jason bites back a groan as the broken bones in his arm grind together, kicked aside as the madman moved around him.

How long has it been since the Joker snatched him from a stakeout at the docks?

“Come on, now, pup.” Joker’s voice is low and husky, a mockery of omegan comfort.

A day? Two?

His scent hangs heavy in the room, long ago overwhelming the neutralizer patches. Sour and sick with pain and terror.

“Tell me.” His tormenter _purrs_. “Which is better? A or B?” 

Two blows follow, cracking more ribs.

“Come now, puppy! This is for science! Forehand or backhand?”

Another pair. 

Jason chokes on the blood. Every movement is further torture.

Damian. _Dad_. Where’s his dad?

Surely they would have found him by now?

Blows continue to rain down on him. Jason can’t think. Can’t fight. Can only curl up and pray. Pray that help comes. That his father arrives.

As his vision greys out, the only thing he can hold onto is his father’s face. The man that took him in. The man that loved him, and showed him how to love. The man that gave him a pack — a family.

Jason doesn’t know how much time passes. Doesn’t know why the beating’s stopped. When he opens his eyes again, his vision is filled with stark red numbers.

**00:05**

**00:04**

Oh.

**00:03**

_Oh, no._

**00:02**

Jason closes his eyes and whispers one word.

**00:01**

_“Dad.”_

**00:00**


	2. This Poor Sinner

Manic laughter bounced off empty concrete and rebar, echoing weakly through the condemned factory. **  
**

Damian let it laugh. Soon it wouldn’t matter.

He slowly sharpened his blade — one of the only things from the League he still kept. One of the last gifts Grandfather had given him. 

He was strangely calm. Blank, really. 

_Hollow_.

His light was gone. 

Taken from him by the monster shackled to the floor in the middle of the room.

He would never see his boy quirk that cocky grin. Would never see him stare up, defiantly standing his ground against an order he didn’t like. Would never feel the pup curl up against him in the nest, his favorite book under his nose. 

Blackwing should have done this years ago. When he’d seen the death and chaos and destruction the creature left in its wake. When his father refused to do more than throw it back in that cesspit of an asylum to escape and wreak havoc again and again and again.

Perhaps if he’d had his pup would still be flying through the rooftops like he was meant to. Not buried in a cold grave beneath an uncaring city.

“Missing something, bird boy?”

The Joker’s caustic voice pierced the air. Damian clenched his fist unintentionally, knuckles growing white around the handle of the blade. He consciously relaxed them, continuing his actions. 

“What, you think your little sharpening routine is gonna scare me, bucko?” The clown giggled. “We all know you’re just as toothless as your old man. You’re not gonna do anything.”

Flickers. Embers of heat under all that heavy cold emptiness stirred. But he would not be swayed. Blackwing knew the Joker’s tricks. Its manipulations. Knew the plans within plans. He would not be swayed from his path by a few meaningless words.

“Oh, you’re no fun. Is this what I can look forward to from now on?” 

The pout in its voice was audible.

Damian tested the blade. It had long been out of service. A product of his wish to honor his father’s preferences. This would be a fine final task for such a sword. 

He hefted it, feeling the weight in his hand again. Satisfied, he turned and surveyed his prisoner.

The Clown Prince of Gotham had never looked more pathetic. 

Chained kneeling to the floor, hands behind its back, it glared up at Blackwing. It didn’t realize the predicament it was in. It wouldn’t ever have time to.

“Are you quite finished with this game, pup?” The creature grumbled. “If I had realized you’d lose your sense of humor with the little bitch, I wouldn’t have blown him up.”

Fury bloomed, bright and hot, in Damian’s chest. _How dare it?_

“Well… Maybe I still would have.” It shrugged, unconcerned. 

Damian took two measured steps forward.

“Who knows? I’m not the same person I was a few days ago.” 

It wasn’t a _person_ at all. It was a thing. A dark thing. A creature from the Pit; a stain on the heart of the city — on his pack. _No more._

He yanked on greasy green hair, pulling the clown’s head back.

“Hey, now, watch it! I just got my hair—”

One smooth heavy stroke.

Red lips stretched forever in a bloody smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](https://primeemeraldheiress.tumblr.com/)


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